


Patching Up

by loststardust



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Damaged Goods, F/M, Fluff, Post-War, poor babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loststardust/pseuds/loststardust
Summary: For once, it's you that needs Arthur. It's you that's falling apart.
Relationships: Arthur Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Shelby/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Patching Up

The betting shop is empty, cold and filled with that pale, blue light that only the moon can give. If it weren’t for Arthur, pilfering through the forms and sheets on Polly’s desk, it’d be silent. Instead, his grumbles fill the space. His careless searching cushions the room with enough noise to make it feel busy.

‘A fuckin’ mess,’ he says, to no-one. His rings catch against the wood of the table as he discards another folder. ‘Where the hell is it?’

When he can’t find what he’s looking for, he sighs heavily and collapses into the chair behind him. His feet go onto the desk, crossed at the ankles, and his hands go under it, reaching for something that will be found. Something that’s there every time. He grabs the neck of the bottle and Pol’s wine is brought to the surface, uncorked and at his lips before he’s even paused to read the label. It’s sour, fortified, and it stains his tongue but does the job. Makes his efforts seem somewhat worthwhile. He leans back in the seat and sighs again, sitting the bottle on his stomach. The desk’s a mess after him, but he tells himself it was like that before, she won’t know any different. He straightens the paper nearest to him like that’ll guarantee it.

As he takes another drink, there’s the sound of the door, the fall and creak of it opening and shutting again. Then his name, barked and rounded in John’s tongue. His footsteps chase him as he moves through the shop. His voice is nearer when it comes again.

‘Arthur? You ‘ere?’

‘Yeah, John,’ he drones, talking through the catch of wine in his throat, ‘am here.’

John appears in the doorway, coat open and out around him like it’s only just caught up. He frowns at the sight, at his brother reclined in Polly’s office, drinking Polly’s port, but blinks it away again. ‘Right,’ he says, ‘you better come see this.’

‘What is it?’ He gestures outwards, bottle in his palm like it’s stuck there. ‘I’m doing… stuff. Things. Work, John.’

‘It’s [y/n]. She’s lost it, Arthur.’

‘Ay?’ That’s caught his attention. He drops his feet to the floor, heels slapping against the boards, and sits upright. ‘Lost what?’

‘Lost it. Pissed out her head.’ He’s panting between his words; he’s run the whole way. ‘She’s in the Garrison, saying she’ll burn it down before you’re back again. S’fucking messy, Arthur, I couldn’t get her to stop.’

‘Alright, alright.’ The bottle’s abandoned on the desktop, his hands reaching to smooth his hair back, and then back again. ‘Alright,’ he repeats.

‘Fucking madder than Danny whiz-bang.’

‘Shut up, John.’ He stands, the chair rocks back on two feet. ‘You make her bloody worse,’ he scolds. Then he’s in motion, around the desk and past John through the shop, only pausing to grab his coat and cap from the stand by the door.

‘It’s not like with you,’ John warns from behind, ‘it doesn’t come from nothing.’

He doesn’t get a response. Arthur shuts the door before he can follow him out.

It isn’t raining but it may as well be, the noise behind his skull fills the street, smothers his ears from the inside. Static like sheeted-rainfall. He isn’t built for mending, for putting things together. He can barely keep his own strings tied. All it takes is one edge to fray, and then he’s unwinding, spiralling and twisting ’til he’s unrecognisable. When she goes, she takes him with her. It’s hard to stay whole when someone’s falling to pieces beside you.

It’s something he’s had to learn, though. She’s needed it from him. Since they got back, she’s been different, and he’s adapting to it still. He doesn’t like it, and he’s not the best at it, but if he manages to calm her without losing it himself, it’s a victory. A battle won is a battle won, no matter how small or how local.

He sets his cap in place and dips his chin as he walks. His gait is quick enough to disturb the surface of the road, grit spitting behind every time he lifts his foot. If she was drunk enough to send John running, he doesn’t have long before it gets out of hand, before she’s too worked up to come down again. Under his breath, he curses her — for picking him to rely on, for being too like him to pick anyone else. For expecting him to come back from France whole. She’d wanted him and she’d gotten this, these pieces, this tarnished copper. That’s what had set her off, left her fraying like he is. If he didn’t feel responsible for it he wouldn’t be on his way to her now. There’s loyalty in heartbreak, a kind that can’t be shaken.

When he reaches the Garrison, the outside’s quiet. The street’s dark, and light glows through the mottled windows, but he can’t hear anything that he shouldn’t, no raised voices above the hum. At least she hasn’t started any fires yet. That’s one thing, one threat that was empty and wasted. Pace unfaltering, he pushes on, opening the double doors with both palms extended. Meeting the warmth with the same steadiness he intends to keep.

————————————————————————

You’re barely conscious when you hear your name, loud and rattling into the pub. The bar is cold, topped with copper, or brass, you don’t know, don’t care. It’s cold and so your cheek is against it. Your eyes are closed but if you opened them you’d be looking straight along it, through the glasses and the ash trays. Over hands and owed-money. Your gaze would go right to the end and into the wall where there’s nothing at all.

‘[Y/n].’

It’s your name again. You know who’s saying it, but you can’t face him yet. Too loud, he is, too loud and too right about everything. You just want to wait, and rest, and let your eyelids be as heavy as they like. The barkeep was angry before, but he hasn’t said anything since you sat and put your head down. What harm could it do to stay a little longer.

‘Mr. Shelby,’ he says, from somewhere near the top of your head, speaking from outside the buzz. ‘I think she’s asleep, sir.’

He’s chosen to betray you, then, to point you out. It only takes a minute for his decision to ruin your peace. He says it and then you aren’t alone anymore, and the bar isn’t cold against your face because there’s a hand on your shoulder, dragging you upright. You go to complain but it comes out as a whine, sticky and clinging to your throat.

‘Nah,’ Arthur says, ‘not sleeping, are you, love?’

‘Trying. Wishing.’ You’d shrug him off but his hand is glued to your jumper, you think. Or your shoulder’s too lazy to listen to your brain. ‘Go please. Go, go.’

You may be upright, but your eyes are closed still, and he’s talking to you like you’re there. Like you’re conscious enough to answer him.

‘What’s this I’m hearing, ay, about you wanting to burn down my pub?’

Your head drops to the side, away from him like he pushed it. When you don’t answer, he hums and shakes your shoulder. You wince. Your brain rattles against itself.

‘Get us a water, Harry.’

‘Don’t want water,’ you say. You’re ignored. Of course you are, you hear the glass clink as it’s set down in front of him.

Before you can argue again, it’s in your face, cold and fresh and dripping down your cheeks. Your eyes open and the brightness hurts, and the water stings, and Arthur is staring at you with the empty glass in his hand.

‘What the fuck?’ You stretch your sleeves over your wrists and dry your face, limbs moving quickly in the unwelcome burst of sobriety.

‘You weren’t listenin’,’ he states, setting the glass down. ‘Now you are.’

‘I was, I just wasn’t talking.’ Once they’re dry, your cheeks are hot again. Flushed, like the water had wiped a layer of drunkenness from you, just to reveal another beneath. ‘You’re so fucking…’ You don’t finish the sentence, you just wipe your eyes with the heels of your palms.

‘So, what have you got against my pub, eh?’

You scoff. If you’d said it, you don’t remember doing so. You don’t remember anything past John telling you to drink, then telling you to stop, then telling you that you had to grow up. That you had to stop complaining about fucking love, and fucking futures, and fucking Arthur. That it all had to stop, ‘cause it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t your thing to complain about.

‘He started it,’ you say, under your breath so he might not hear.

‘Started what, hm?’ His voice is loud. Close. Accent round and familiar and nice, but annoying. So annoying when your head’s where it is. ‘Why am I fucking here?’ he asks.

Because John starts arguments he can’t finish. Because you got drunk, and then drunker, and then everything was fast and blurred. And problems started climbing over each other to get out of your mouth, to spit into the air at anyone who’d listen.

‘You can’t keep doing this,’ he says. ‘How does it look, ey, to have you shouting up the pub every week?’

‘Oh, who gives a fuck about reputation, Arthur.’ You turn to him scornfully. He’s inviting them up again, the words that sting as they escape. ‘As if anyone fucking comes here expecting grace. As if I don’t fit right in with the rest of you.’

His hand drops from your shoulder. You hadn’t realised it was still there. ‘It’s a fucking business, love. Can’t I hope for a little improvement?’

‘Only if you start with yourself.’ You watch his jaw tense then look away. There’s a glass to your left, half-full with something clear and inviting. You reach for it but he stops you, pins your wrist down, leaves your fingers curled and yearning for it.

‘You’ve had enough,’ he warns. He’s above you slightly, standing to lean across and keep you still.

’Are you here to help?’ you ask sweetly. Falsely. ‘Or to make my night worse?’

‘I’m here,’ he starts, lifting your wrist and bringing it back as he sits again, ‘cause John said you’re like Danny whiz-bang.’ He puts your hand down in front of you, close to yourself, and not the alcohol.

You tut, shaking your head. You want to abandon the conversation. They don’t get it and they won’t, no matter how many times you go over it. No matter how loud you shout it.

Arthur drops his head, finding your gaze and keeping it, holding it with that stare he has. ‘What fucking war have you got to go bang over?’ he asks, harsh like he’s whispering, loud despite it. ‘What is it? Cause I can’t fuckin’ get in there to find out.’

He’s pointing a finger to your temple; you wave it away. ‘Ask John,’ you quip. ‘He knows everything, apparently.’

Arthur scoffs, rocking back in his stool. ‘Like fuckin’ kids, you are. Bicker worse than Tom and Ada did.’

You watch him sigh. Watch him wipe his brow, and flatten his moustache, and smooth the crease from his pant-leg. Watch him attempt to brush away the stresses before dealing with you again.

‘You’re sick of me, aren’t you?’ you ask, though accuse is a better word for it. ‘Y’know, I didn’t ask for you to come. I told him not to get you.’

‘Sick of ya?’ He wants to laugh, but he looks confused. His eyebrows pinch. ‘What the fuck goes on in your head, lass? Eh?’

He hums, like he expects you to answer, like he wants a concise list of it all.

‘I’m fucking here for you,’ he says, ‘always.’

‘And when you weren’t, gin was.’ You face him, turn your body so it’s matched to his. ‘Whiskey was. I never drank before you—’

‘So, it’s my fault.’ He nods. It isn’t convincing, and he doesn’t mean it to be. ‘Yeah, yeah, alright, you tell yourself that, love. See how it helps ya.’

You drop your head back, let it fall slack between your shoulder blades so you can stare at the ceiling. It’s always the same conversations, over and over. It was all he did, all any of them did. They’d rather talk in circles before they go anywhere else. Before sense is made, before things are heard.

‘I’m not. Fucking. Saying that, Arthur,’ you groan. Your words go up and then down again. From your lips, into the air, then back into your throat. They meet the liquor and strengthen. ‘Am I not allowed to be fucking frustrated? Ever? Can I not just be mad and then stay mad?’

‘Depends,’ he grumbles. ‘I don’t even know what you’re fucking mad about.’

You sigh, heavily, and the breath catches a whine as you set your head straight. ‘You honestly don’t see it?’

He shakes his head. You’ll have to spell it out for him. You’ll have to pick apart the stitches, and lay it all flat, right here, right in the fucking Garrison.

‘When you went to France,’ you start, slipping from the stool to stand in the small gap between you. ‘When you went, you were in love with me, and when you came back you weren’t.’

’S’not true,’ he says, his answer too quick to be a considered one.

‘You only want me when it suits,’ you say. Your finger hits his shoulder, your voice raises and twists bitterly. ‘Only pay attention when I’m being too loud, or too drunk, or too fucking—‘

‘Alright,’ he barks, grabbing your wrist. ‘That’s enough.’

A laugh comes out of you but nothing’s funny. Nothing invites it. ‘That’s my fucking point, Arthur. You don’t even care. You don’t even let me explain.’

‘I care.’

You scoff and tug your arm but he doesn’t let you go.

‘I care,’ he repeats. His eyes are soft, like he might cry, but his voice is sharp. Striking. ‘I would die for you,’ he says, ‘fucking die. Alright?’

‘That’s all you know, Arthur, everything’s death. How to die, how to kill.’ You pull away again and this time his fingers break apart like worn-leather. His hand falls into his lap, you leave it there. ‘What happened to love? Where did that go?’

His chin drops. You know you should stop but you don’t, your words are slick, boozy. Honest but too cruel for him.

‘Do you even remember it?’ you ask. ‘How we were?’

‘Course,’ he answers. ‘Course I do.’ He’s holding his voice tight, quiet, close to his chest. If you were anyone else he’d be shouting. He’d be drunk and falling apart like you were, wanting people to listen like you did.

‘I just…’ You sigh but it feels like a whimper. ‘What did I wait for? What came home?’

It wasn’t him, not as he was. Wasn’t love as it had been. You knew to expect it but it still stung. It still made all the longing and the worry feel useless, pointless. Terrified of losing a man that had already gone. Every time you remember it, every time you think about how he used to be, and how he used to care, it gets too much for even the gin to cover. You don’t want to go off like a whiz-bang but there isn’t anything to wet to fuse. All you have is Arthur to gather the ashes.

‘I miss us.’ You force the confession weakly, push it through the cry that’s waiting to come out. ‘I really miss us.’

His head lifts slightly. He finds your hand to squeeze it. ‘I know, love. I know.’

‘I know it’s hard for you,’ you babble, words sad and tumbling now they’ve caught momentum, ‘and John says it isn’t fair for me to whine about it, but I can’t say nothing.’

‘Don’t listen to him.’ He shakes his head. ‘He dun’t know what helps, just says things and hopes.’

You sniff, and nod, attempting to will the tears back from your waterline. John never means what he says, you just have be sober to realise it. ‘What if he is right, though?’ you ask. ‘I didn’t go to war.’ You stayed home and they went instead. All you had to do was wait, and welcome them back, and love and care and keep going in all the places they’d given up. Surely, that’s the easy job. Surely you can do it better than you have.

Sighing, Arthur stands, and you’re already chest to chest before he puts his arms around you. ‘It weren’t just us,’ he says. Then he pulls your head to his shoulder, his hand flattening your hair, and you let him. You sink into him like you’d begged for it.

‘It’s all learning, alright. We’re all learning.’ He rubs circles on your back. You want to tell him you had enough time to learn, but you know it’s a lie. You know he won’t hear it. ‘Let’s get back, ay?’

‘You’re working,’ you mumble, losing the words behind his lapel.

‘Nah.’ He pushes you back and then brackets your face in his hands.

You’re weighted, fixed down and lazy. Alcohol sagging you now the fire’s gone out. You look at him, blinking, bleary-eyed from it all. He takes it in; checks you over and finds peace in the wreckage. How he does this time and time again, you don’t know, you can’t work it out. It should scare him off but he stays anyway. His hands drop from your face to rub your arms, pushing comfort into the cotton.

‘Bloody work,’ he says quietly, ‘I’ve had enough for today.’

‘I know you care,’ you answer, like he’d asked for it.

He smiles but it doesn’t show past his cheeks. ‘No more alcohol, alright, least not as much. Not when you’re sad, love.’

You nod. You’re always sad.

‘What are we like, hm?’ His hand touches your cheek. You want him to kiss you but he doesn’t. ‘Too bloody similar,’ he says, and you don’t disagree.

————————————————————————

Afterwards, Arthur takes her home. He wraps her in his coat and pulls her, lagging, to Watery Lane, to his house, to his bed. She’d burnt out by the time he’d got to her. It feels selfish to admit it, but he’s glad she did. He wouldn’t have lasted otherwise. He would have fought her and hated himself for it, or maybe hated her for it. It was better not to know.

When they get back, she’s quiet, and she lets him put her together again. She doesn’t complain when he offers her water, barely comments when he warns her of the headache she’ll get in the morning. They change, and wash, and he does all the things he wishes someone would do for him when he’s bad. He knows she would, but then he never lets her see him like that. Not since the first time.

After it’s all done, they go to bed. He puts her there ‘cause it feels safest, furthest away from the things that worry her, close enough to him to make them both feel easy. He reaches for the lamp on the bedside, turning the dial so the light dims. So it feels like just them.

‘Arthur,’ she starts, gently, softly. ‘Are you sure you aren’t sick of me?’

He’d thought she was asleep. She’s lay down already, curled on her side. Now her body pulls around him as he sits on the edge, her knees against one thigh, her chin against the other. Her eyes are closed like she’s dreaming.

‘I’m sure, love.’ He puts his hand to her head, running a thumb across the cheekbone he can see. The other’s hidden against the mattress. ‘Couldn’t ever be sick of you,’ he tells her. He’d only ever get sick of himself.

**Author's Note:**

> i think i might be addicted to writing arthur pieces <3 hope you like this, it feels a bit different from my usual!


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